


this deja vu

by zhujungjungting (runswithchopsticks)



Category: Produce 101 (TV), Wanna One (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-04 23:39:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12782133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runswithchopsticks/pseuds/zhujungjungting
Summary: "Guanlin takes a deep breath, burying his face into the crook of Woojin’s shoulder and neck. The heat of Woojin’s skin against his cheek is soft, comforting, a feeling and a sense that’s almost instinctive, because it’s what Guanlin wants."





	this deja vu

**Author's Note:**

> lmao I wrote this in about an hour and some (if we don't count ice cream breaks) I'm so proud of myself  
> Obviously inspired by that part in the Beautiful choreography where this [stuff](https://twitter.com/pocaripedia/status/932188522676494336) happens and I am officially weak for this ship lol  
> Okay thanks for clicking on this, I hope you like the read haha!
> 
> music: Ailee - Insane

_start._

* * *

One.

Guanlin shifts his weight entirely onto his right foot.

Two.

A stride forward. Left heel down, toe up, then foot flat on the black marley of the stage.

Three.

He pulls himself forward, placing his feet next to each other. His head is angled downwards, and he sees nothing but black and red -- the stage lights illuminated above them flashes a gold across the span of colors, so that in that split second, if he were to focus his attention closely, he’d be able to pick out the individual threads of mimicked silk.

Four.

With practiced ease, his arm slips beneath Woojin’s shoulder. His palm comes to lay right where Woojin’s right shoulderblade may be -- the resting of his fingers is light, feathery, barely there, but his fingertips still stroke the barest amount against the cloth of Woojin’s jacket, as if it were an act of reassurance; but reassuring who?

Five.

He lifts his head and stares at the rows of seats in front of him; he stares at the expectation in those hundreds of physical gazes, including thousands, maybe even millions of virtual gazes, ones that aren’t actively present, yet nonetheless waiting, waiting for both him and Woojin, standing there.

Six.

But if Guanlin waits, if he doesn’t step back, if he just lingers even for the most miniscule of seconds, he can feel the slightest trembling of Woojin’s barely-there breath on his cheek -- it’s the kind of breath that might come out of one’s lips if they were speaking, but nevertheless still there, breezy, rolling over an expanse of skin in short puffs before dissipating into the warm air.

And that’s what he does -- he retracts himself not even a second late, but early enough so that he still retains the tempo of the music in his body. It’s partially from a desire of his own to idle there, but it’s also from a sense in his subconscious that keeps his feet just a little more heavier than they need to be, something that wants him to draw closer to Woojin, hang his head more, turn a cheek until the breath they share is the same -- to _stay._

Seven.

He still takes his step back -- it would be both unacceptable and immoral if he were to dawdle for too long, and in that moment where both him and Woojin turn, their jackets flying out around them, their eyes meet, a tense current of electrified understanding passing through them; or at least Guanlin thinks it’s an understanding, because Woojin needn’t meet his gaze, but he still does anyways. It’s hardly enough time for Guanlin to fully comprehend the expression on his friend’s face, but in that split second, he feels like he sees a mirror of his own emotions and thoughts; what are his emotions and thoughts, anyways?

Eight.

Their eyes are torn away, that tense string between them snapping, and Guanlin feels the pulse in his heart that tells him he’s just broken a connection. It slides out of his chest the same way water would seep out of a crevice of the rough limestone of a hidden cove, and as it dissipates, it fizzes and sparks into a brief feeling of disbelieving hope that someone might experience when they think they’ve lost something.

* * *

It’s just them two, here together in the studio, and Guanlin looks up and sees his own reflection in the mirror, noticing how there’s circles under his eyes and his hair is all mussed to one side as if he’d only slept on that side of his body the whole night; but he can’t care, he just runs his fingers through those strands, closing his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them and looks up, lo and behold, there’s Woojin, the hand outstretched towards him holding a water bottle.

He takes it, offers a grateful smile, that one curling of his lips where a side of his mouth is more open and higher than the other. And Woojin laughs softly, leaning his back on the wall and sliding down until he’s sitting down next to him. Their shoulders are pressed together, and Guanlin sips quietly.

When he sets the bottle down, there’s no more sound in the room except for the puffs of their breaths, and Woojin leans his head against Guanlin’s shoulder while they take their short break. His eyes are halfway closed, maybe a sign of sleepiness, but then again, all of them are perpetually sleepy -- it’s just become the wall of mist they all need to fight through every day and together. Guanlin feels the need to turn his head and rest his chin atop Woojin’s hair. He almost does, but instead of his chin, it’s his cheek.

The silence draws out between them like the unraveling of a ball of yarn -- comfortable enough, maybe a little rough, but when it’s all gathered together it’s unbelievably soft and supple, yet simultaneously firm and cushiony underneath his fingertips. Woojin stands up the moment Guanlin feels the pressing of drowsiness at the corners of his eyes, as if he could sense the change in Guanlin’s mood. He turns to face Guanlin, looking down at him, and reaches out a hand. Guanlin takes it, their palms pressed, fingers wrapped around each other in an understanding, and maybe Guanlin wants to pull Woojin closer to him when he stands up as the grip between them lingers for a moment longer, maybe he doesn’t.

They go through the steps together, and it’s basically embedded in Guanlin’s body -- basically. There’s just that small stride, a little reach, that he needs to take further, and Woojin was the first to volunteer to help him, to be his timer and his anchor.

He counts when he feels the music and sees it coming. One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five comes after four, but five doesn’t happen. The music continues as Guanlin misses the next three beats. His head has not lifted -- rather, it hangs even more now, until the tip of his nose is brushing against Woojin’s shoulder, and he finds his fingertips curling in even more as they hook over Woojin’s shoulder -- a sign of possessiveness, a plea, or maybe even a wish?

Woojin doesn’t ask as the music drags on -- it’s now into another verse, a different part that muddles and fades out into background noise around the two of them. He just stands there in his pose, Guanlin’s arm looped underneath his shoulder, a palm now firmly holding onto him. And then, with staggering movements, his arm bends and raises, and there’s the warmth of his hand on Guanlin’s bicep.

Is it encouragement? Is it a silent plea for more distance? Guanlin doesn’t know. Maybe he even reads it as the former, because his other palm climbs underneath Woojin’s other shoulder, gripping onto him and pulling him close. And then, it’s with an almost eerie naturalness that Woojin’s arms just slide around Guanlin’s neck and return his embrace.

Guanlin takes a deep breath, burying his face into the crook of Woojin’s shoulder and neck. The heat of Woojin’s skin against his cheek is soft, comforting, a feeling and a sense that’s almost instinctive, because it’s what Guanlin wants.

“Thanks, hyung,” he whispers. His voice is muffled into Woojin’s shirt, but Woojin is close enough to him that he can hear Guanlin’s words clearly.

There’s a soft huff, a wisp of breath, like Woojin’s about to laugh, and Guanlin hears the smile in his voice. “Of course,” he responds, words mumbled, and the next moment, Guanlin feels the bumping of Woojin’s nose against his own neck as Woojin pulls his arms together tighter, pressing in the boy in his grasp as close as he can to himself.

They will never be able to embrace each other like this on stage. It will always be one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight under the golden lights, in front of the cheering fans and the flashing cameras, under the eyes of thousands and maybe millions. But in the fluorescent lighting of their studio, with the golden-brown wood paneling between their feet and their reflections in both the mirror and each other, it can be either one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight or one-two-three-four-five. Guanlin wants it to be one-two-three-four-five; he knows that clearly now, and when Woojin pulls back slightly, the fluttering of his eyelashes as he gazes up at Guanlin tells him that the numbers that Woojin’s counting in his own head might as well not pass five.

* * *

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo thank you to S for giving me the idea because I really wanted to do something about that scene but I had no clue where to start but she sat there on my couch and told me cheesy ideas so here we are!!!


End file.
